
















































































































































































































































































I,.,,' : 


.. % '* <^‘ ... V^v-*/'... \-h 

AV » " - w » *> @ ’ *** CV ,rJ « */w «■ *b 



: 4-° -v : 

* r\ <^-*. <» 

*° v*»... 


» Cr ^ * 

« /Li O 

, > • ». \* 

t v-sr .'Bm°, • 

»* A’V o 

^ askP* t .^. 4 

**. % o°* .^;.>o /\c^ \ ,j>* 

^. 0 4 oV^»« <^<-v itm*,, t. 




e » # 


bV 

« * 4. ^ * <"s 

«V *3*. *•<■'• A° ^ 



»• 'W »< 

<► j _ * 


» • a 


»* ^ ^ 

•* & °o ** 



^ % 


V 




, • 

• A V<* * 

* # > • 

* <* * 

i* sLjtfrZ-' *L, 

*> &T4I//?* _ »jp 


o N£» V 
.* ♦♦ ^ 


O • ft 


^d« 


’* a 0 V < 

.s* **j£fe' ^ > * 

- ® J " - ™ ^ - ^>/V * 


K 4.°^ *.< 



t • o 



*’ 

4? 


- 


# *® 


W w ® 

• c5' / '* ■‘WSmSsfZ «V>^ * s. 

’VV ® wfc A 1 ' ^ rf iV** A^ <> ^0.1 •' -O' 1 

C° ^°o ^ ^ c 0^ ,••■•■ 




A> 'HA 



'bV* 

iPrT* 



‘A o' 
X o. 






% *•>’* A 






n> .. V'OrJv** o*‘W’ 4 P' 

1 * ®* Cv aO » VVw - ^ A *c* <9~ » * ‘ 

•o '^?> AT ,' SSifak '. &, A ,V^#/k» ^f> A* .* 

°. ^ tJlGil'- W MM*. ^ v’ • 

/ ^ ^ ^ ^6. if ^ ° 

• •• % X <V <* 'o.i* <6^ v3 VTtT* A <. -O 

--•* fA: <bv* > 

» °<* . 



o K 







’> >° ■%. v 

% **>?r«* ^ % ‘^'’* a°° v *^r»* 

Lrh/t ** V C\. AV ^ V *1 







A-JV ' 
y ^ * 


aV-^> o- 

♦ 4r ^ • 



/*♦* 6 * <\ %* %©.»«* ^ ^ ** 7 ^ 

cP* \L^*N ^ * o°* .t^Ll* \> 

*o 4 :<J|& W .tftigt*. "=W ;'&$£■. «c 


*0 
L* °«* 


o r\ '*v •J^vSSsp** 6 4,h’ o ,/> 

o^ *•,-.• Ap * * * © 0 4 ^ ^ # • m • aP 

* • °' <0" •*v.% ^> v ii«• »4. c' *<)■ *•; 



>a AV * -‘wW ♦ ^ V *1'"' A’- 

* ’T*>. %• *A 4, V .# Tx ♦. 

cp ♦ CSSS® • v. ♦ rfotfr A.° cv * 


J b«b 


o 

A V<^ * q 

„,,'•/ V* 

a 4, ^ 



W 


o § 4 


** ,<f % 

c° % 




* 

. * 
'.Mf#-,* v •#• »y^ 

^ * •** 4^ ^ "® 

4«Sr 



: 

** <c 

I | ■ ^ ^h v o *&W*t a 

**!■>* a 0 <j> St# 9 4^r *»n' a^ 

’ *°- %. AV ^ ^ ft**** ^C* * fl! 

'.M* '. 

v « v ($ 2) * \i* *jkM#rs ^ * <P 

<>» *©•** A o A <^ -« 

. , V ^;. ^ 0<>\^\ /\.‘^.\ 



••** aV^ , 

•jr « # ^ 














THE 

SYLVAN CABIN 



PANAMA-PACIFIC 
INTERNATIONAL EXPOSITION 
EDITION 


EDWARD SMYTH JONES 



















































* 



























































THE 

SYLVAN CABIN 


A CENTENARY ODE ON THE 

BIRTH o/LINCOLN 


BY 

EDWARD SMYTH JONES 

<< 


WITH 

INTRODUCTION FROM THE 
NEW YORK TIMES 


“It is better poetry than is found in current periodicals.” 

Judge A, P. Stone 


£W7 

.9 

.tT7& 


Copyright, 1915 
By Edward Smyth JoNiis 
All Rights Reserved 



© Cl. A 4 06750 

bo t 


IN THE WORDS OF 


LINCOLN: 


“All that I am and ever hope to be, I owe 
to my Sainted MOTHER,” 


I DEDICATE THESE VERSES TO 

MINE 


PREFACE 


W HEN LINCOLN said: “A house divided against 
itself cannot stand: the Union cannot long continue 
half slave and half free,” he re-stated an immortal truth. 
Whether the slavery be chattel, mental, moral, material or 
spiritual, the truth remains unchanged. 

The Emancipation Proclamation not only liberated the 
Negro but the poor whites as well; for as long as they had 
to compete with free Negro labor, they flowed continually 
into that broad stream of the oppressed, known as “poor white 
trash.” Lincoln’s pen broke the shackles from black and 
white alike, giving them the opportunity to earn and eat the 
bread of the sweat of their brows. 

That was physical freedom. They are now held by the 
most inoxorable tyrant IGNORANCE, from whose regime 
they must be freed. The prime need of the Emancipated is 
MORE AND BETTER EDUCATION. The new Lincoln 
must emancipate the mind. May he soon appear! 

Since the publication of “The Sylvan Cabin and Other 
Verse,” in 1911, the Lincoln ode has elicited such favorable 
mention that I have decided to issue it separately, in the 
present form, with the hope that it may have a wider circula¬ 
tion among the people; that the true American spirit, which 
found its highest manifestation in Lincoln, the same spirit 
of which 

Our tongues most gladly sing thy praise, 

And from it ne’er shall cease—till all 
The land be free! 

may become thoroughly disseminated throughout the land: 
that all the people, white and black, may “catch one note of 
thy immortal song that fills the air,” and therewith become so 
imbued that: 

So must thy spirit fill the hearts 
Of all Columbia’s youths, as once 
It filled old “Honest Abe,” thy son, 

Thy pride—the first-born of thy love! 

For when each lowly lad well knows 
That ever upwards he may soar, 

Beyond vain tyrants’ galling sway 
To fairer climes where Freedom reigns: 

Then will the shadow of thy wing 
For aye to them a shelter be! 
may become a living reality. 


San Francisco, California, July 4 , 1915. 


The Author. 














































































































































































































































































































































INTRODUCTION 


S THE title of the book indicates, the ode on Lincoln is 



the most important. Two characteristics of this long 
poem that strike the reader on first reading are coherency and 
sincerity. He tells his lofty story without digression, and lauds 
his noble hero without hypocrisy. The third characteristic is 
imagination. It is no ordinary mind that says in connection 
with Lincoln’s birthplace: 


These gloomy woods, whose blackness stands 
Up hard against horizon’s slope; 

Grim, spectral, dreaded, and untrod, 

Save monsters great of savage mien, 

That prowled or crouched upon their prey; 
Sent forth a vicious roar that shook 
Old Sylva far and near, from vale 
Through crag to mountain peak! 

Upon this spot the Redskin oft 
Has danced his “War Dance” and his “Feast,” 
His face a reddish hue aglow— 

Long locks with eaglets’ plumes bedecked; 

His bow and never-failing dart, 

And scalper dangling at his side! 

More brightly gleamed his wary eye, 

As braves the war-whoop loudly yelled— 

A sight more like the fiery fiends 
From Pluto’s ghastly shore returned 
Than human blood and bone! 

They all have gone and left no tale 
But woe which hurled them ever hence 
To that shore whence ao bark returns. 

Old Cabin, thou, a landmark art, 

Of human freedom’s onward march! 


The fellow is worth while. He may not be the best waiter 
that waits in the Faculty Club, but it would be interesting to 
know how many better poets eat there. 

Of course, if he were never going to write any more poetry, 
his case would be very simple. People could buy his ‘‘Sylvan 
Cabin” and he could collect the royalty. But it is not so easy as 
this. He says that he must write, that ideas come into his 
head, and he simply must put them down, black on white. Of 
poems that he now has in manuscript, especial notice should 
be taken of his “Sea-Queen: A Poem in Memory of the Ill- 
starred Titanic.” It is dedicated “To the Heroes Who Fell 
Asleep on the Titanic, Monday Morning, April 15, 1912,” and 
is the longest, and in some places the best thing he has yet done. 

So things rotate in this world. A house that was formerly 
given over to the needs of the mindless is now the refectory for 
the especially sane and teachers of sanity. It seems, indeed, that 
nothing is constant but change. And the things these men 
of mind feed on are brought to them by a poet with his “eye in 
a fine frenzy rolling.” Blind is the man who fails to see the 
eternal return of the same, and unwise is he who does not 
believe in the relativity of all things .—The New York Times, 
Sunday, February 16, 1913. 




















“So must thy spirit fill the hearts 
Of all Columbia’s youth, as once 
It filled old “Honest Abe,” thy son, 
Thy pride—the first-born of thy love!” 










THE SYLVAN CABIN 


A CENTENARY ODE ON THE BIRTH OP LINCOLN 

I 

O , Fairest Dame of sylvan glades, 

We come to pay thee homage due, 

Embrace thee softly and to kiss 
Thy lovely, long-forsaken cheeks; 

To smooth thy flowing silver locks 
And bind around thy snowy neck 
A necklace golden studded full 
With rarest gems and shining pearls. 

Our eyes though sometimes dimmed with tears 
In purer lustre sparkle forth 
When’er they fall agaze on thee! 

Our ears attuned to thy sweet lay 
Catch every flowing cadent note 
And bear it ever safe within 
Our joyous hearts, which gladly leap 
When’er thy name is called! 

Deep in our souls the quenchless fire 
Of love still brightly burns upon 
The sacred altar, set apart, 

For sprite commune and sacrifice; 

Whose high-priest tends with loving care. 

And unto thee sweet incense burns. 

Our tongues most gladly sing thy praise. 

And from it ne’er shall cease—till all 
The land be free! 


II 


A CENTURY lonely hast thou stood 
Here all forsaken and forgot! 

All men failed thee to visit save 
Some idle lover of sylvan haunts 
Who trod, perchance, this hallowed spot, 

And cast a pensive eye upon 
This lovely glade, thy sole abode 
(Full lost in these continuous woods), 

And brooding o’er thy lowly lot, 

Oft thus did muse:— 

“This cabin lone 

Here stands to tell the tale of him, 
Backwoodsman brave, who having scaled 
The mystic mountains ne’er returned 
To them, though loved yet left behind; 

But here he chose his last abode, 

These gloomy woods whose blackness stands 
Up hard against horizon’s slope; 

Grim, spectral, dreaded and untrod 
Save monsters great of savage mien, 

That prowled, or crouched upon their prey; 
Sent forth a vicious roar that shook 
Old Sylva far and near, from vale 
Through crag to mountain peak! 

Upon this spot the Redskin oft 
Has danced his “War Dance” and his “Feast,” 
His face a reddish hue aglow— 

Long locks with eaglets’ plumes bedecked; 

His bow and never-failing dart, 

And scalper dangling at his side! 


M ORE brightly gleamed his wary eye, 

As braves the war-whoop loudly yelled— 
A sight more like the fiery fiends 
From Pluto’s ghastly shore returned 
Than human blood and bone! 

They all have gone and left no tale 
But woe which hurled them ever hence 
To that shore whence no bark returns. 

Old Cabin, thou, a landmark art, 

Of human freedom’s onward march! 


Ill 


Of thee 

Thus has time passed with naught more said; 
For man in his pedantic art 
Soars far in feeble flights of song 
From Nature’s heart, and thus he fails 
With Nature’s God to hold commune! 

The bard has slept, dreamed many a dream, 
But failed to dream one dream of thee. 

High hangs his lyre on willow reed, 

And sitting ’neath yon shady nook, 

He fails to catch one note of thy 
Immortal song that fills the air. 

Awake, O bard, from sleep so deep! 

Attune thy lyre; let Nature breathe 
In her immortal breath of song; 

Then wilt thou sing a song most sweet, 

The song by Nature’s vesper choir, 

Through all the countless ages sung,— 

And still is singing day by day. 


T HEN all the world will join thy sweet 
Refrain in praise and ardent love 
Of this fair forest Dame! 


IV 

The nations all their day shall have; 
Yet each in turn shall rise and fall, 

As falls the dark-brown autumn leaf; 

Or as those dread sky-kissing tides, 

Which toss frail barks high upon 

Some ghastly, frowning storm-beat shore— 

Though slowly, yet quite surely ebb away. 

Aye! Egypt fair once spread the Nile, 
And green-bay-tree-like proudly flourished; 
Her snowy sails seaports bedecked, 

And deeply ploughed the rolling main, 

Or clave the placid lakes, as does 
The gentle swan, when some soft breeze 
The bulrush stirs, flings its perfume 
Upon the rippling silver waves! 

Fair cities dotted here and there 
Her vast domain. Her royal line 
Of Pharaohs held the sceptre gold 
Upon her all-emblazoned throne. 

Now Egypt fair is wreck and ruin; 
For, as fled on the flight of years, 

The unrelenting Hand of Time 
Wiped her sweet visage oflf the globe! 
Naught save the grim, grey pyramid, 
Sublimest work of man, yet stands 
To greet the rosy morn, with proud 
Uplifted head, expanded chest— 


A DEATH defiant scoff at Time ! 

Yet hoary Time in his wild rage 
Of wreck and ruin, like Jove shall hurl 
His fiery bolts upon the head 
Of pyramid with ire, and crush 
And raze it to its base with scorn! 


V 

Next Greece, the fairest Nymph that trod 
This belted globe upon, once shone 
As shines the Morning Orb, long ere 
The Dawn the purple East has kissed; 

High reared her sacred temples in 
Olympia’s shady groves, and built 
There flaming altars to her gods. 

Old Zeus and Phoebus oft here sat 
In council with their fellow gods. 

And Homer, fiery bard, was first 
To smite the chords of Nature’s lyre; 

Sweet sang he till the earth was filled 
With rarest strains of rapturous song! 

Then Art and Letters blew and blushed, 
The fairest flowers of ages past, 

Whose essence, spilled upon the breeze, 

Is wafted still forever on; 

And man in calm delight inhales 
Quintessence of pure classic lore! 

But Greece is gone! Her statues fair 
Are mingled with the dust; each god 
Has flown some fairer clime to rule, 

Or, subdued, walks the dark abyss. 


VI 


T HEN Rome, the gaudy Southern Queen, 
On seven rugged, rock-ribbed hills 
Securely built her throne. The world 
Then saw a mighty power rise 
In splendor great, as does the sun 
On some young, swift-winged morn of June. 
A brighter dawning seemed to break; 
Another life was lived,—for through 
The Roman vein there coursed a blood— 

A fiery burning blood of ire, 

That rose and conquered all the world. 

Great Caesar led his legions forth 
From victory on to victory, 

And hung her royal pennons high 
In tower, palace-hall, and throne; 

The Roman sceptre swayed the globe. 

Soft music soothed her savage ear, 

Fine arts and sculptor were her toys, 

And glory was her “starry crown.” 

But now we read the “Fall of Rome, ,, 

The doleful lay that tells the tale 
Of all who thus have passed away. 


VII 

To thee, fair Dame, we thus relate 
The things which were but are no more; 
That thou mightest know the worldly way, 
And knowing, have no timid fear 
To ever stir thy peaceful breast. 

No fate like theirs awaits for thee; 

For Fortune’s maid shall tend with care 
Thy every nod and beck—yes, place 


U PON thy queenly brow a crown, 

The glittering crown by Freedom worn! 
’Tis true no flint rock ribs thy base, 

No stone thy corner marks; for that 
What carest thou? For boasted pride? 

Thy frame is of the sturdy oak, 

Inlaid with ribs of stately pine; 

The Prince and Princess twain are they 
Of all Columbia’s giant woods. 

The sylvan songsters sing thy praise 
From dawn till set of sun, and then 
The mockingbird, the queen of song, 

In praise of thee poureth forth her lay 
Till every mellow silver note, 

Far floating in the silent trees, 

Is taken by an elfin choir, 

And chanted softly to the moon. 

The eagle her wee eaglets tells 
Of thee, that they may freedom love; 

Then soaring full beyond the clouds, 

She looks with vaunted pride on thee. 

So must thy spirit fill the hearts 
Of all Columbia’s youths, as once 
It filled old “Honest Abe,” thy son, 

Thy pride—the first-born of thy love! 

For when each lowly lad well knows 
That ever upwards he may soar, 

Beyond vain tyrants’ galling sway 
To fairer climes where Freedom reigns: 

Then will the shadow of thy wing 
For aye to them a shelter be! 


Personal Views and Points From the Press 


“It is better poetry than is found in current periodicals.”— Judge 
Arthur P. Stone. 

“It is the product of one of those geniuses, who like Paul Laurence 
Dunbar, or Alexander Dumas, occasionally comes forth to proclaim the 
intellectual equality of the Negro race.”— Boston Evening Post. 

“We have read your poem with great pleasure. It is a noble piece 
of verse and catches the spirit of the subject splendidly.”— Meredith 
Nicholson. 

“ ‘The Sylvan Cabin/ a centenary ode on the birth of Lincoln, is 
spirited and imaginative and gives evidence of true poetic spirit.”— 
The Pittsburg Chronicle-Telegram. 

“Your poem deserves praise for its spirit and patriotism. I am sure 
it will make an impression on many people and win you good-will.”— 
Mrs. Charles R. Williams. 

“‘The Sylvan Cabin’ shows that its author has rare ability, energy, 
determination, a gift of song, and serious ideas. He deserves great 
credit for his literary attainments.”— The Troy Record, N. Y. 

“I thank you for ‘The Sylvan Cabin’ and find many charming bits of 
verse therein; and I wish you every success. You have undoubted 
talent.”— Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 

“ ‘The Sylvan Cabin/ a centenary ode on the birth of Lincoln, is 
written by a man possessed of unusual ability in the poetic line.”— 
The Detroit News. 

“Your book certainly has great merit, and has made acceptable gifts 
to several of my friends.”— Canon Charles Winfred Douglas. 

“ ‘The Sylvan Cabin’ is an appreciation in verse of Lincoln, that is 
fervent and well expressed.”— Salt Lake City Tribune. 

“I have read the copy of ‘The Sylvan Cabin’ I received from you. 
I’m sure it will, of very sincerity and beauty, appeal to any one who 
enjoys poetry.”— Clarence C. Little, Secretary to the Corporation, Har¬ 
vard University. 

“Though the representative of the race which has given Paul 
Laurence Dunbar to the world, he strikes an even higher note than that 
lamented pioneer in the field of Afro-American poetry. There is no 
suggestion of the ‘plantation’ in these verses, which are unidentifiable 
as the output of one born in the ‘black belt’ of Mississippi .”—The 
Evening Star, Washington, D. C. 


“ ‘The Sylvan Cabin,’ a centenary ode on the birth of Lincoln, is a 
piece of melodious and expressive poetry, decidedly meritorious. There 
are much feeling and individuality in the poem, and it seems to promise 
no little for the future.”— The Rochester Chronicle-Democrat. 

“ ‘The Sylvan Cabin’ characterizes you as a real poet. Your ideas 
are excellent and command attention. I predict for you merited success, 
in the attainment of which you have my best wishes.”— Orin C. Painter. 

“His poems have the ring of genuineness and sympathy in them, 
and he should further cultivate the muse of poesy as he gives promise 
of real genius.”— Chicago Advance. 

“The author of ‘The Sylvan Cabin’ gives evidence of real poetic 
quality and the true lyric ring. His study of literary technique is 
found in the literary finish of his verses, but above this is a delicate 
fancy, a convincing sentiment and an expression of thought which mark 
him as a genuine poet. * * * 

“His poems are remarkable illustrations of how genuine talent will 
seek its expression, no matter how varied the obstacles thrown in its 
path, for the young author counts some of the most distinguished men 
and women of letters among his readers.”— The Baltimore American. 

“As the title of the book indicates, the ode on Lincoln is the most 
important. Two characteristics of this long poem that strike the 
reader on first reading are coherency and sincerity. He tells his lofty 
story without digression, and lauds his noble hero without hypocrisy. 
The third characteristic is imagination. * * * 

“The fellow is worth while. He may not be the best waiter that 
waits in the Faculty Club, but it would be interesting to know how 
many better poets eat there.”— The New York Times. 

“These poems, then, will come to many readers with a freshness, 
with the appeal for a certain sympathy that will compel attention. The 
opening poem, which celebrates the centenary of Lincoln’s birth, with 
its fine imaginative sweep, is as good as any poem I have seen which 
that occasion called forth. In it is poetry that ought to assure Mr. 
Jones’ future if circumstances permit him to cultivate an art for which 
Nature has so obviously endowed him. ‘The Sylvan Cabin’ in spirit 
may be said to characterize the author’s book; that upward striving 
toward the ideal. * * * 

“Mr. Jones’ work has already won for him the approbation of many 
literary people, his poems having appeared from time to time in various 
publications; this fact not only justifies his gathering them together in 
this volume, but being so recognized must fill him with a certain 
assurance for the future. To this I can only add that, as good as these 


are, they give us hope for better from one who ought certainly go on 
and upward .”—William Stanley Braithwaite’s Introduction, First Edition. 

“Edward Smyth Jones is our truly distinguished visitor. He is a 
poet—a real poet and none of your itinerant rhymesters. Indeed, if he 
could only write doggerel he might be drawing down a good salary. 
His chief handicap is that he has descended from those who were, 

“ ‘Born in fair Egypt, on the spreading Nile.’ 

“He is a Negro of the higher type; in fact, he might have posed 
for the famous picture of Othello. * * * 

“Jones has two ambitions in life—the one to get a university educa¬ 
tion, and the other is to write no other poetry than he feels impelled 
by inspiration to compose. * * * 

“In the course of his pilgrimage, Jones was a waiter at Columbia 
University, where he had frequently to pass the marmalade to men 
whose poetry was not to be compared with that of the attendant 
bard. * * * 

“Of the quality of his verse there can be no question. It sings itself, 
and has a lyric charm, an epic dignity, a deep religious fervor, and at 
times a playful grace which cannot fail to impress all who love the very 
best in the melody of words. Braithwaite himself declares: ‘These 
poems, then, will come to many readers with a freshness, with the 
appeal for a certain sympathy that will compel attention. The opening 
poem which celebrates the centenary of Lincoln’s birth, with its fine 
imaginative sweep, is as good as any poem I have seen which that 
occasion called forth.’ 

“Quotation is difficult. One hesitates between some of the charming 
love lyrics and those of deeper thought, but this stanza from ‘Life in 
a Dream’ will prove the poet: 

“ ‘There is nothing so gay as life in our dreams, 

With its joy and its laughter and mirth, 

For the pleasure that teems is far greater, one deems 
Than any he finds in the earth. 

There our homes are our natal, and nothing is fatal 
In the beautiful land of our dreams.’ ” 

—San Francisco Chronicle. 


W 60 ' 

S 






**JJLT% ^ ^ ^(ffpi* ^ C, ° %* 


0 * • 4 


£ 

>: A q 


**o« 


” 0 ^ 


«®0« 


, wo <i> ^ rjf* 4° ''V. •.^tiKfssirv ^ ”■ * ’tZ'/iva 

%' . 4 ^ % ‘^•’*/ '\ N # % **•*’■ 

O 5 ,-vV . * * - , r < 1 4 > , f * <?„ o 

V » 1 V' < 5 ,. 4 ? .‘wiwL*. ^., . v ,•■»**. ■©„ 


■4 0 -* 






yV 


,5 a* 


d>, • lyiTii * 4 V Vv °J v 6 3 ^ xr 4 <S V v-> * v *ym# s i> . V 

%% /\«^\ c°\.^y. °o / ^ 

rv”. .-v %.£ .v^ala. 


•*fet^ 


•‘-o 


4.°'^ 


^5 q* 


,.'* 4 O 0 'V..** y ^ y ,. ^'* 

,/' >;&&. % y >:yk % y .otofr. % 


» H © 


V«\ 


% < 

vv 


> tP u ^|ljjjg£|^ o aV*^a o ^0 

ft‘v!JCv^* A 5 ^y • ^ ^k yfr 

•« ^ / • LL’% ”*q, y' 4* <P* .Jsssss 

.v^b*. *mt:~ -w ?vj| 


^0 


^o 1 



q. * * , 1 • aVJ 
»* 0> 'Vq. sy %*JZJ+ 


*\f : 

^ *• tSKSv a^ ^ 


• ,- mvr # 

V % ^» ; A 1 
<?> v 


lP cl 


* I ■» 


« ^ c 

o vfL - 




jl ^ ^ w ^ ’«ymrs y ' 

* 0 ^ *< ,Ve* A <L "»•»* 'q*. ■'•'•• y 

♦ % y .k'*, %> f Qi oiL’% ^q, .# ,* l A; 

V. - .V vifl^» » ^f>. .4 .'- 555 ^ V. *k ' 4 ®^ 


i*. ^o V 


v V^V V"/ ./V 

-Q V ,I ♦• ^. ^ *0 I*./l^ > 

A ‘a A. "fee. 


• * « 


« > d^ ••■•# ^b 4L^ A »** ,# -* 4.0^ 

^L 1 * A » tK-. A 9 « 


©«« 






u r ® ( 

yq* v^HB r ; 4 > 0 ^ V 

*/ C q *0^ Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proces 

*" ^ »K yp 1 »••, Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 

V ^ ^ i* t ^ Treatment Date: May 2010 

^ r PreservationTechnologie 

P* * WV/^S^W? * < A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATK 

'■(•p*. • ^ 0*4 /111 Thomson Park Drive 




Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 




’“ov* \ 0 < • t «^bir- «. tii&Zr. 




b V 

v* J.°% *.. 

<^- v^y V #; ---, 

V • **?* c* * 0 T »vV% ^ 0 

<i. * A »• «#>. ^ * Vf , sfi!F?*v * ^ . . V 

■ $**> V** .’ 

/ '.jS§?.- V 

o. ** .(r xo *?7yf» A 

F .•••. *b 



• ^ aV , 

- ^r<V 




»: >°\ *. 
* <** «£• <* 


* ~o 

J . 

" v^v 

• *P* * 

°. u b'F • 

« aV«\ * 

* > •; 




^‘a'V <* .0 

,** ^ ,cr • , *o 


**v 

* C% vT* - 

A V •"'»* 4 < 0 * 

•J* .W%n* ^ c° ° 

%**cr 

v-v* .% *"’•’f° 

* '^t, A^' t rCCO&f/K * 3 »* 

/ ^£jj$g<.* 1 




...• A 


•jF ^ • 


<«-«*• 



a-t ..i^Lr, > 

oV*' ' 

’>* »° *V *• 

V V'* v *- 1 

*. Ap r ,»v% ^ v % 

^ c^ *yazv. * 

vc • 

• A ^ V *V *P*Sw* ***. 

* <y & •; 


> %>' m 

° • *" a 0 v ’ *o. *?*^f** A 

c° .t^r- ® 0 ^ .r^* '■** 

^ -o/ .ttE^. '^o< 






HiiitfV^A 

©1 



ef* • <s“ o 4,*ie£2^S^ * o 

A« V ♦•»•• a" o. ♦»,-.• .o J 

&> & + €$&£' % aF 4Va*« V a 4, .‘, 

* a? ^ ^ ° 


<X ■'-•** ^ V* 

J-^" ^ 0 oF ^o A*' ,.'?, ^ 




"* ^ ^ 

t» » “l«/ —.- .■ 1 — 

*»«o' 

'••- cv a 9 .’.VI' . s> 

*: \/ A: .- 

• aV-v > aX 

.* _ 4F «• v'd|,^‘ JtP V *. 

■'•••* A 4 <* '»•** aCF V ♦ 





































































































































































































































